Finally Found
by That One Senpai
Summary: Fem!Harry, no likey then this isn't one for you. He woke up better today. Everything was quieter, inside. It was a good day, better than any murder case could give him. A flash of red and a drunk waving a gun around was all he needed. A better life for her, he swears.
1. Chapter 1

**I don't own Harry Potter or Sherlock!**

 **Fair warning, I tweaked with the ages and timelines to make more sense in this. Sorry Hermione lovers, I'm with you, but I feel like this would happen under these conditions.**

 **000**

 _What the hell are we doing here?_ John watched the bustle of travelers hurry off to their destinations. Sherlock had been on edge, only not in his normal irritated way. More anxious, John would even reach as far as _excited._ He'd been scanning the crowd, searching for God knows what. The ever observant Sherlock Holmes shifted his weight from foot to foot, almost impatiently.

John sighed, "Sherlock, why are we here?"

"I'm waiting for someone."

Not as surprising, "Who?"

A brief twitch of his flatmate's pale wrist, "Someone special. Now quiet, I'm thinking."

It wasn't a question.

Looking around at the chaotic hustle, John wondered _when_ this _special someone_ would show up. Did Sherlock have a fancy for someone? Or was it a contact? But, then why would the world's only consulting detective be reduced to this mess of nerves?

Said lanky detective was, once again, trailing his eyes over each face. Dammit, which one was it? Since he woke up this morning, sprawled across the sofa, he knew that today was _the_ day. He knew exactly where to go, where to find them. Who, though it hurt his pride to admit such a thing to himself, he hadn't the foggiest. From the time that he was a child, he'd known that there was just someone out there, waiting. For him, he assumed. It was the only, and trust him when he said _only,_ conclusion his mind could come up with. Highly illogical, he knew, but it was what, above all else, felt completely and utterly right.

There was a brief flash of bright color from afar. His eyes narrowed.

With all confidence possible, he strode over slowly past John and to the short form of a girl. A _young_ girl, much younger than him. But to ignore this feeling, this great divine pull, was impracticable. Infeasible. Unwanted.

He hardly noticed John slowly tailing behind him.

The girl was pale as alabaster, much like his own skin tone. _Doesn't get much sunlight._ Dark red locks fell in waves over her slim shoulder, side bangs swept over a clear forehead. No acne marred her attractive face, a feat for someone of her age group. Thin face, small button nose, high cheekbones, and large eyes. He was far enough to the point that he almost couldn't see the eerily glowing green of them.

She was at a side view, reservedly conversing to a young man with flaming auburn hair as he animatedly described something. Both were rolling carts of luggage and a cage away from Platform 9, another girl with bushy brown hair walking substantially faster in front of them with an air of 'superiority' around her. A group of teens with the same flaming red hair was being led by a plump woman through the crowd, most probably the boy's family.

 _Miss Know-It-All is isolated, separating herself but sticking close enough to be considered with them. What would cause this, jealousy or an awkward situation possibly? The boy is talking comfortably, obviously friends of approximately... 4 years. Seeing as they are about the same age, **she** must have known the girl for that long as well. _

Sherlock slowed enough to be incognito. _Now **her.** She is quiet, only comfortable around those close. In other words she is socially awkward. Paying apt attention to the words being spoken, straightened up to show a desire to please people. Clever and calculated, judging by her pacing of steps and assessment of those around her. Plays an instrument, each step a beat at 4/4 time. Tempo of 104 to be exact. Small and skinny as a rake, almost to the point of malnourishment. A likely cause. Eyes flitting about every few seconds, paranoia or perhaps a deep rooted traumatization. Lightning bolt scar purposefully hidden, relatively fresh, self-conscious. Has tried multiple times to involve the other girl, loyal to a select few. They must have once been close. Attractive, has caught the eyes of suitors and most likely turned them down. Definitely if she has that..._

During his musings, a man dressed in neutral had brushed passed Sherlock, hands in his pockets. As he was about to pass the group of teens peacefully carrying on with their day, he pulled his hand out and grabbed the crimson beauty in a choke hold. In his other hand was a semiautomatic handgun.

Sherlock's heart stopped for an agonizing second.

Then raced at an elevated pulse as he thought of scenarios.

"Alright, everyone back away 'fore I blow 'er brains out! Get back, I say!" he hit the gun over her temple, eliciting a whimper. The sound made Sherlock's eyes flash furiously. Adrenaline raced through his veins like molten magma.

People screamed and mothers shielded their children from the man. The girl's friends had backed away as quick as possible, the fear of danger apparent. Only, subconsciously, he realized it was caution of the man and fear for her.

A quick glance at John was all he needed to confirm that this was the bus hijacker from yesterday. Ransacked all valuables from the passengers at gunpoint and made off without a trace. Lestrade had handed them the case. It was interesting, only just, and had satisfied his thirst for reprieve of the boredom.

Only now, it was personal. And that was what scared him the most.

 _Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock._

His mind zoomed through solutions to this, frantic to retrieve her to safety. For a moment, their eyes met. Icy blue and emerald green. It made his soul soar high, gazing into her eyes like an open book. One he could read and never tire of.

"John." he muttered.

John raised his own gun, "Police! Hand over the girl and drop your weapon now!"

The man, a tall blond with brown eyes, turned and pressed the gun to the redhead's now bleeding head threateningly, "Give me all your money, everyone 'a ya and she goes free."

John's finger tensed on the trigger, "Can't do that. Let her go and we won't have to add murder to the charges."

Sherlock's mind strained with the deductions he forced out. _Stress lines on forehead, working class with low wage. Shabby clothes, stubble, eyes bloodshot and foggy, drunk. From the looks of it, a regular. Resorting to frantic mugging, desperate for money. Pay off debts and loans. One thing is for sure: it's useless to talk him out of it. Those levels of intoxication with a No Way Out mentality leaves negotiation out of the picture._

Sherlock stiffly shook his head when John sent him a questioning glance. He sighed, _Take the shot._

"I'm warnin' ya! I'll paint the station with-"

He didn't get to finish as John shot him in the forearm, his grasp on the firearm relinquished alongside his freedom. The girl tipped forward with the man's weight suddenly lifting, almost falling to the empty tracks behind had Sherlock not anticipated it. He swooped the girl into his arms and got his first proper look at her up-close.

Green eyes, not a hint or speckle of yellow, blue, or brown. An endless vortex of various shades, all blending to paint the picture of spring and sun and warmth. Her twig like arms had wrapped themselves around his biceps to support her balance, malnourished indeed. The skin was pulled taut over her bones, sharp elbows and knobby knees. More than 30 centimeters under than him, she was short compared to the other two. He towered over her and held her tight as her legs shook from the strain of keeping focus. The blood gushing from her head was worse than he'd originally thought.

She stared at him, drinking in the sight before her. Dark chocolate curls, high cheekbones, and lovely crystal blue eyes that were beyond refreshing, his intelligence shown clearly. It reminded her of winter, snow, and peppermint. So cold that it burns. And she was scorching right now. He was unusually pale and thin, she supposed that he stays inside and doesn't eat much. His fingers were long and artistic, he either played a string instrument or piano. Wide eyes, observant of every detail. He was clad in a long black coat with the collar spiked up, blue scarf, a white dress shirt, and dark trousers. Never had her heart leaped so far passed a beat at the sight of someone. Every fiber of her being brimmed with elation, a sense of completion filled the space left by her separation of the horcrux. Not even the times when she rode her broom or had gotten her first wand had made her feel this way.

In the background, Lestrade, Donovan, and Anderson helped and got witness accounts. Everything sounded as if it was underwater.

A stuttered breath escaped her lips, gently fanning over his face. "Th-Thank you for saving me..."

Those words, that exact phrasing, he knew. Sherlock had memorized them the day he got them, 14 years 10 months 25 days 8 hours 27 minutes and 45 seconds ago. He was ten and had watched as the fluid words swirled over his left elbow to his wrist written in shimmery green ink as though written by a ghost. The emotions he had always found so fickle suddenly seemed _so_ much more important. To his life, his very survival.

"It was my pleasure, miss." Sherlock smirked down at her. A look of comprehension blossomed upon her petite face as she looked up at the tall, dark, and handsome man she was destined for. Those words were scrawled elegantly across her shoulder blade, never seen by anyone other than herself. She shielded the royal blue markings with her very life, never had she allow Aunt Petunia or Madam Pomfrey or even Ron know of their existence.

And here he stood. Finally.

A smile, more beautiful than any angel's, appeared on her porcelain face. Sherlock relished in it, cherished it, and he swore to himself and on all good and bad he had committed that he would protect her with all he had.

Sherlock straightened out of the dip he held her in and helped fix her jacket on her shoulders. Her clothes were large, almost swallowing her whole. This, he would have to fix.

She held her hand out for him, "Harriet Lilith Potter. It's nice to meet you, though I never imagined it would be quite like this."

"Neither had I." He smiled pleasantly as his hand engulfed hers and shook it, "Sherlock Holmes. I must say, there is much I wish to discuss with you, but I believe that family over there happen to be your... foster family." His eyes narrowed as he watched the whale of a man turn an interesting shade of purple at the crime scene that Harriet stood in the middle of.

Harriet turned to see her mother's sister staring at her with scorn, waiting a fair distance away. "Oh... Um, they're not my foster family. They're, er, my aunt, uncle, and cousin... I think I should-"

 _There's always something!_

"No." Sherlock answered immediately at her train of thought. "The paramedics will take you to the hospital and stitch up your wound while I have a... _discussion_ with Inspector Lestrade pertaining to your current guardians."

A faint blush took up her cheeks as Harriet ducked her head. He knew, how he did was a mystery, but it had to do with those ever-observant eyes of his. But - what would happen if they took her away? The protection, the wards, they wouldn't work!

"There's no need, really! And, I don't think I need stitches, there's been worse! I'm fine!" she nervously went to brush the cut, missing the look of anger that took over his face.

He caught her hand, "Don't be ridiculous. I will not stand by as the family of my other half abuses and mistreats her." He took note of her startled face and pulled on a cool smirk, "What? Surprised? You shouldn't be, it's very obvious. To me, at least. Too small and skinny, hand-me-down clothes from your pig of a cousin. I'd guess they didn't feed you on a regular basis, somehow stunted your growth, and shrunk the clothing to save on money. Though, there is no need for that, as your lovely aunt has _loads_ of jewels and your uncle has a tailored suit. The fact that your cousin is fatter than a baby hippo also shows me they do this out of the findings of freakishness in you. Why, I have absolutely no idea for I cannot find a single gram of imperfection."

The blush grew darker for every sentence he deduced. It was all true, other than the abnormality he overlooked. She wasn't normal, even by wizard standards. And the fact that he noticed so quickly blew her mind out of the water. _He's amazing...!_ His superiority and expertise made her feel guilty. Sherlock is extraordinary, while she was bleak and plain talentless. Nothing much to show for intellect, Hermione was supposed to be the smart one in the group. Ron was strategic, so what did that leave for her?

Nothing, that's what.

Sherlock grabbed her by the shoulders and led her passed the Weasleys (all of which were trying to get to her behind the muggle Scotland Yard) and out to the ambulance. He sat her down on the floor in the back of one and had an EMT clean her head, placing his coat over her shoulders to chase off the unexpected summer cold. Harriet frowned when she noticed the blood stain on his otherwise pristine shirt, only to be waved off when he saw her eying it. Her head started rolling off until Sherlock asked her math question. It kept her awake and helped him understand her academic level, which was in his terms incredible for her age.

It was only then that John had found them, the other three not far behind. "Sherlock, where the bloody hell did you go-" He stopped before finishing, finally seeing how his friend looked at the girl. The green writing on his exposed arm explained everything. The other three hadn't seen it, figuring he was getting part of the story from her. John knew, though he'd lived with the younger man for months before he caught sight of it.

"Uh, Sherlock, the verdict?" Lestrade gained some composure after he had openly gawked at the two that were off in their own little world. He was wary of the situation, you couldn't tell much from Sherlock's thought process.

The detective threw him a wallet, "Sean Bagstan, low class worker in the assembly line. Low pay and his son is in the hospital for cancer treatment. His wife left him, he was an abusive drunk and had been finding a way to pay for the treatments. He also had a gambling problem, owing large debts. Didn't touch the child, but has made the mistake of coming here. He needed more money than just a bus jacking and decided the train station would be fine, in the least secure area. Ought to tighten it up for next time."

The wallet he had pickpocketed held a few notes, many credit cards, a picture of his son with the ex-wife torn off, and his key card for work. Sherlock had known he would come here, the very next day to collect more cash from a larger herd. His son needed the operation now, or he'd never be saved.

"And how'd you figure that out from just his wallet?" Anderson asked indignantly, causing Sherlock to roll his eyes at the idiot.

"Well, it's obvious, isn't it?" their attention was drawn to the girl hidden among his coat. Harriet blushed but continued, "There's a picture of his family, but he tore it down the middle. I think he didn't care for his wife, only his kid. His breath smelled like whiskey and he looked sort of deranged but steady enough to stand, showing he wasn't stranger to intoxication. He has too many cards from different unions, so he's been deep in debt, for chemotherapy most likely. There were poker chips in his pocket too, dunno why. He works for the Funtom Toys assembly line judging by the access key. And, um..." She bit her lip at the stares she received.

"Go on." Sherlock encouraged. Pride swelled in his chest, she took adequate observations. Just not very sure of herself. That would also have to change.

"He has a visitor's pass to the psychiatric ward at St. Bart's Hospital, so I guess he has some kind of behavioral or mental illness. Maybe sociopathic? He didn't care if he hurt anyone, so no empathy. Only to his son. Also explains him not caring for his ex. There wasn't a phone on him, so no connection to social media." Harriet kept her eyes on the horizon, not wanting to acknowledge the looks she'd get for showing off her oddity.

He smirked, "A sound deduction, Miss Harri."

Harriet averted her gaze to the other side so he wouldn't catch the pleased smile she wore.

"Another freak, eh? Seems they just multiply-" Donovan started.

Harriet's violent flinch and burrowing into the lent coat did not go unnoticed by the investigators. She squeezed her eyes shut in shame and hung her head in submission, her hands tightening on the lapels. Sherlock brought her closer and asked more math questions - he was on quadratics now - to which she would murmur the answers. John hovered nearby and watched the adulterer in disappointment.

"Donovan! Get your ass to the station. If I hear-" Lestrade had gone off, only for a hoarse yell to stop him.

"GIRL! What the hell did you do this time!?" The enormous man from before in the station that ignored the officials waddled over in a fury, his bony wife and rather large son left to toddle after him.

The next flinch had Harriet closing herself in the coat entirely as a whimper escaped. _Uncle Vernon is not happy! What... what's he gonna do when we get home?_ The thought made her sob in fear.

Sherlock straightened and stood in front of her, his presence intimidating the fat man. Lestrade tensed next to Anderson, who finally understood the situation.

"Sir, what is your name?" John moved to calm the man down. He looked ready to have a heart attack at anytime now. Thee man stopped waving his meaty fists and fixated his beady eyes on John.

"Vernon Dursely. What the blazes is going on!?" he grunted out.

"I am Director Inspector Lestrade, this is my squad. And they are your wife and son?" Lestrade asked, motioning to Donovan not to say a word. She stood off to the side of the ambulance and watched.

Vernon's eyes narrowed at him, "Yes, what about it?"

"And Harriet here wouldn't also happen to live with you three?" Anderson finished the confirmation of this being Harriet's "family."

A reluctant pause approached in which Harriet retreated farther into her den that Sherlock now held in his arms. The murmurings stopped to listen, only for him to continue in her ear.

Vernon's face started turning purple again, "If she did something, keep her! Have her, she won't be part of our home anymore! We took her in out of- '

"The kindness of your hearts? Is that what you call it?" Sherlock interrupted. He stared down at Vernon, "Starving, beating, and neglecting a child, while encouraging the other to do the same, is _kindness_?"

Petunia gaped at the man while her husband stuttered, "I _beg_ your pardon? We took her in when she had no one else to do such! She is nothing! No less a freak than my sister!"

 _Deep rooted anger, childhood rivalry. Jealous of the younger sister causes her to direct her hatred toward her niece, possibly accelerated by similarities. Sister is no longer around, left Harriet an orphan from something. I need the files!_

"A freak, you say? How long have you referred to her as such? And when you had first addressed her as 'girl' and not her name, do you call her that instead? You are sickly average, other than your impressionism of farm animals. Even a whisper out of the ordinary has you closing the curtains. How many neighbors did you manage to convince? That your son is a little angel and your niece a troublemaking liar?" he turned to look at Anderson, "Apparently there are people more stupid than you, consider yourself promoted."

Sherlock stepped into the back of the ambulance, scooped up the shaking girl, and turned to look at the officers cuffing the family, "John? Find every file you can find on Miss Harriet. We need to know as much as possible to help. I'll have Molly take a look at her, gather any information you can!"

John watch him set the now limp girl on the gurney, "Wha- Why?"

"It looks like Miss Harriet chose a very convenient time to fall unconscious."

 **000**

Molly drank her coffee in the office, thinking of a certain dark haired someone. Oh, how she _wished_ to have a soulmark, then it would prove that they would be perfect for each other. She didn't actually know if he had one, but assumed not if he acted the way he did. Like he didn't care when he did, or when he was sad when he thought no one was looking. She wanted to help him, if not as romantically as she hoped then as a friend. He was so apathetic and said the most rude things sometimes, but Molly couldn't help her attraction to him. She was with the majority, without a mark to show when she'd find 'the one.'

She thought it would be him. Maybe she could change him.

While she was stuck in her musings, her pager went off. The sudden beep scared her enough to jolt her out of her deep thoughts, only to spill her coffee down her front. The blouse was soaked in, thankfully, room temperature macchiato. She cursed before grabbing a rag and pulling on the lab coat as she rushed to the correct room. Why they would need her out of the morgue, she had no idea.

And she certainly wasn't expecting a tiny unconscious girl to be laying in the sterilized room, covered with Sherlock's coat, with the man himself hovering possessively over her bed with a suspiciously red stain on his shirt and DI Lestrade guarding the door.

Sherlock glanced up as the door opened, "Ah, Molly. We-"

"You mean you." Lestrade said. He was ignored.

"-need a favor. Miss Harriet Potter is in need of an x-ray, and I trust you much more than those bumbling dunderheads that can't even find the difference between a rash and an ebola outbreak." Sherlock stated.

Lost for words, Molly just nodded and ordered them out of the room. She snipped the clothes off and took note of the bruises and scrapes accumulated on the skin. There was no idea as to how Miss Potter had gotten these injuries, she had to have just gotten out of school. There were signs of malnutrition, but she had been eating these past months well enough to not show her ribs too hospital gown was placed on her skinny frame, but Molly found that it didn't quite tie all the way. She huffed, some were luckier than others. Not able too help herself, she glanced down at the teen. _Much_ more lucky.

With a larger gown tied around the back over her undergarments, Miss Potter laid on the table under the machine. Though she didn't know the specific parts, she knew how to operate one efficiently. She scanned and took photographs of any breaks, fracture, bruising, and possible re-breaks. After the grueling work, Molly took the copies and put them up on the display board. Looking back, she saw the pale girl on the slab.

Then it hit her. This wasn't a corpse. This was a teen, a living and breathing girl.

She put her hand to her mouth with a strangled sob. A girl, one that has hardly lived her life, had been hurt this much. Broken ribs, wrists, ankles, toes, shoulders, a collar bone fracture, and the webbing in the skull all showed her the story. Years upon _fucking years_ of dealing with the agony of broken bones. The pain of putting pressure on one is excruciating, let alone for however long it would take to heal. None had been clean breaks, and poor Harriet's knee needed to be re-broken. The hate towards her had to be _immense_ for anyone to do this.

A realization hit her. No one had noticed. No one cared.

It felt hot now, her face red. Molly's eyes were raw from crying, the tears falling in large globs to the floor. It was closer than she remembered, and she didn't know when exactly she had slid to the ground. This was why she dealt with the dead ones, Molly couldn't handle knowing that a person was still healing as she assessed them. The fear of breaking or damaging them even more haunted her every time she stepped into a patient's room.

Her brown hair had fallen out of her bun and floated around her head. Through the gaps, she could see the waterfall of red rustle before laying still. A groan sounded, but nothing more. Quickly, Molly hopped up and swatted her hair from her face. Looking over the x-rays, finally seeing a recent breakage of ribs and briskly rushed to find any other wounds. The pale skin was warm to the touch as Molly took her pulsed. When her hand retracted, she looked down to see a large, jagged line from wrist to elbow.

The tears fell again.

 **000**

The chair had too much cushion in Sherlock's opinion. Lestrade was on the phone, gathering intell on the family he had just caught, the boy was at the station. _It's been a while since she started._

His mind was solely focused on one thing. No stray idea or thought on the case they had finished. The wondrous thing was that the thoughts weren't screaming for his attention, just there. In a state of being. And he was strangely fine with it.

His cellphone rang from his pocket and he fished it out, knowing the only person with purpose of talking to him was John. "What did you find?"

"Nothing. Just a Birth Certificate with her parents and which school she went to for the first 10 years she stayed with the Durselys. No doctor check-ups, no vaccines, no dentist visits. Not even a trace of a Facebook page. There's no record of her anywhere after she turned 11. She didn't go to the school the aunt and uncle say she does, not registered." John's voice said over the connection.

Clear blue eyes narrowed, _Hell..._

"Have you found anything else? Grades, pictures, anything?" Nothing there pertaining to her health, she could be sick without even knowing it.

"Not until we go over the house. Vernon Dursely lives at 4 Privet Drive, Little Whinging in Surrey. We'll have to go there first, with a warrant. These people are still alive, mind you. They have rights." John reminded the genius.

Sherlock sighed, "Unfortunately. Get a computer ready, we'll use the video chat."

"And, tell Lestrade not to let them go. Something doesn't seem right with this."

"Will do." The phone hung up and was placed into his pocket. Then, he put his head in his hands. Lestrade plopped down next to him as they both waited for Molly.

Lestrade turned to him, "Find something?"

"No. There is absolutely nothing on her. No medical files, no photographs, no social media that we know of, and no schooling records past 11. What teen doesn't have a social media page? Her relatives had definitely kept her from any internet usage as much as possible. Now, either she doesn't have the means of getting onto one, or she has no interest in anything of the sort. It's likely neither." Sherlock disliked the fact that there was very little on Harriet Potter. Whether it was because he couldn't get a clear read on her story or the fact that she was his soulmate, Sherlock couldn't tell.

He'd known that he had a soulmate, one that was much younger than himself. He'd thought he'd be like the other ordinary people, that in his adolescent mind he was just a normal, mundane human. Then, on the 31st of July, a warm feeling overcame his arm and the emerald green swoops wrote themselves across his arm. The feeling that there was something missing remained with him till 2 and a half hours ago. Every thought had filled that empty space, screaming for his attention, each louder than the last until he could find something to occupy it. Now though...

Now Harriet exists. Sherlock had lost hope in ever meeting that other part of him. And frankly, he'd been mad at her. At the world. It wasn't fair, he wanted to be selfish and just cut the skin off his arm if only to alleviate the burden of knowing. Knowing that they're out there, they're somewhere, and they're not with you. Bitter jealousy enveloped his heart and turned it to stone. Was she with someone better than he?

And here she is. A poor, battered, and broken teenager with no one to turn to.

And what had he been doing?

 _Bored,_ came a small voice that sounded quite guilty.

The precise clacking of Molly's rubber soled heels down the corridor turned his head. She had been crying, her skin was splotchy with the sclera of her eyes being red. Sniffles were muffled into a damp tissue, it had been going on for a while. There was obvious damage, Molly wouldn't be upset about just anything.

"I... think you both should see this for yourselves. I can't-" Molly cut herself off with a gulp of air.

Both men looked to each other before following their way to the room.

 **000**

At first, Lestrade had no idea what he was looking at. Everything was connected, all one piece. It took a second, one that Sherlock had gone over the edge with. The bang on the wall vibrated in the air when he'd punched it, his pale fist oozing the smallest bit of blood. While Sherlock was shaking like a kettle about to burst, Lestrade looked about to vomit.

Fissures in the majority of Harriet's bones were showcased above the lit table. Even if they were simple, they were not treated for however long it had been since she got them. Sadly, those weren't what his eyes had been attracted to. On a larger scale, the girl's skull was shown. Lestrade had to look away to steel himself before glancing back.

A large collection of fractures webbed down from top to bottom of her head. It originated around the back, no definite point to be located. Some sort of brain injury as a result is almost a 100% positive.

Sherlock quickly memorized each and every splinter of bone. All were marvelously healed and wouldn't cause much contortion, but her left knee had to have a rebreak. His fist tightened and he glared disdainfully at the x-rays, as if they were the assailants. _Yes, what had I been doing._

Molly breathed deeply before gathering them up and putting them in a file before tucking it away in a cabinet. The data had already been entered into the system, safe where only authorized personal could get it.

The silent walk back to the patient room was tense. No talk was made while they wallowed in the sorrow of the last remaining Potter. When the door was opened, an empty bed greeted them.

"Where the bloo-" Lestrade began before he walked out to get a look at the video cameras.

Molly started looking around wildly, "Where's she gone? Sherlock, I-"

Sherlock simply held a finger to his lips and pointed down. The bed skirt was ruffled a bit, Harriet's soft exhales heard. Sherlock crouched down and lifted it slightly, "... Harriet?"

She was scrunched up on her side, a pair of shiny scissors held tightly in her hand. The other was wrapped around her torso for comfort. As soon as Sherlock's icy blue orbs came into view, she stilled and dropped them. His hand was out for her to take.

The scale difference between the two was significant. Larger, paler, and longer gently folded around the smaller, daintier hands. The subtle squeeze around his fingers did not go unreciprocated.

Her green eyes looked up to his, catching the light. "... You weren't here when I woke up. Other people started coming by. I hid." Harriet looked down embarrassed.

She was pulled off the ground and sat on the bed. Sherlock held her hands just a bit tighter. Very seriously, he looked straight at her. "You mustn't stray too far."

The reluctant smile was all he needed.

...

Molly's cheeks grew warm at the two off in their other dimension. It was like a one-way glass separated them from her. Green and blue writing. Emerald green and icy blue.

There was no way now.


	2. Chapter 2

**Thanks for the positive feedback! I love that other people are liking this as much as me! I'm sorry I haven't posted in forever, I've been SUPER busy! And my laptop broke so I had to wait for repairs.**

 **To explain things:**

Soulmarks/Soulmates: **To me, it would make sense that _everyone_ has some magic in them, but only witches and wizards can access them. Like with muggleborns. So, it would make sense that everyone has the potential to have one. Though, not everyone has one. The ratio for those with soulmarks to those without is roughly 1/10,000,000, and not everyone meets their soulmate. A sad reality, but it just makes sense. Some people could just not have the means to meet their soulmate, or might even die beforehand.**

Timeline **: A Study In Pink happened from October (first suicide) to January-February-ish of the next year. There were a few cases between, nothing of much notice. After Harri goes off for 5th year, The Blind Banker starts. That way The Great Game and A Scandal in Belgravia can happen in sequential order.**

Horcruxes **: I'm gonna slowly introduce what exactly happened in the story from 4th year (my way). It may or may not involve the Royal Princess, a pensieve, and some magic experiments.**

Pairing B **: Irene and Sirius aren't soulmates. Yeah, yeah, I know this is a soulmate AU, but it's 1/10,000,000. AND Irene wouldn't be her manipulative, seducing self if she did have one (that would be a shame; I like her that way. You do too, admit it). Sirius was a player in Hogwarts, he had no strings attached just like her. I'm still working out how they'd meet, so load me up on some ideas if you've got them.**

Dursley's **: Because Harry is a girl, I believe she would be much more sensitive to the abuse that the Dursley's had made her suffer through (and we all know Harry didn't even realize he was being abused). Petunia had seen her loathsome sister Lily in Harriet, so it carried over more hatred from her jealousy towards her younger "perfect" sister. Vernon would already hate her abnormality, and Dudley would pick up on it, but not as much. That would give her some sympathy and understanding toward him.**

Hermione **: So, yeah. I really do love her, she's a kickass witch. One of my favorites. But, _because_ Harry is a girl, she'd understand how important education would be. And cause a thirst for knowledge. This would lead to her trying her best in each class. Hermione honestly only has her book smarts until 5th or 6th year, so she doesn't have much else to go on. Take away her top ranking, she only has her second place best friend (cause Ron was the first, real friend) and second place as Brightest Witch of Her Generation. I'm still iffy on when she'll reconcile. She still has her pride and can be stubborn.**

 **I'm sorry if it seemed a little fast in the first chapter, I had to keep going back and forth every time I got a new idea, deleting and adding some details and lost track of time. And the age difference will keep a lot of the usual things a normal soulmate AU would have from happening. Sherlock would never act on anything with a current minor. Also, I'm sorry if the deductions are a little amateur-ish, my mind is nowhere near as magnificent as Sherlock, Mycroft, or Jim's.**

 **Consider me as average as John. Without the medical degree, because I am a simpleton.**

 **Enjoy!**

 **000**

Ginny was having an anxiety attack. Harri had just been held _hostage_ by a muggle man, saved by the muggle police (Scottish Lard, was it?), and taken to a hospital that was certainly not magical. Her heart was pounding faster than a frightened unicorn herd, louder than a banshee. No, she wasn't over her hero worship/crush thing. The humble presence Harri gave off was soothing, especially living with her family. An overbearing mother, successful eldest brothers, jokester older brothers, and the adventurous other brother. Try anything, they've already done it. Twice.

With Harri, she felt the undivided attention she'd give to her precious books. The awe of being near someone who stood up to wretched monsters, a classic hero from any fairy tale. Her role model, her idol. To be powerful, but wise. Strong, but still vulnerable. She was the most loyal, accepting person Ginny had ever had the joy of meeting. That was proven in the Chamber of Secrets when Tom nearly killed her. Merlin, the older girl defeated a snake _30 meters long!_ And almost died saving her.

The true epitome of Gryffindor.

It sent her in a panic when the police swamped the station, the tall man taking her friend away to the muggle Healers. He scared her, looking just like Tom had. Dark, curled hair with those icily perceptive eyes that could see your every thought before you could even blink. He was smarter, _better,_ than those around him and he knew it. They were so alike, it made her blood run colder than the winters the Durmstrang students had gone through. Her lungs seized up as if a bludger had hit her square in the chest. She was losing her friend all over again.

The memory of her holding the paling Harri still haunted her nightmares. As an eleven year old first year, Ginny had never witnessed death. Never seen the light leave the eyes of another, never holding a corpse's head in her lap. Her hand had held onto the older girl's so tightly, as though she could anchor her to her mortal shell. Ginny didn't want Harri to die, she hadn't even lived yet! She could be great, do amazing things. She was already a good person, she could do so much right in this wrong world. The pulse in Harri's arm had slowed as she took each wheezing breath, the poisonous venom must've been excruciating. Then a flame of red and gold appeared and Fawkes saved her with his tears. They flew out of there with Ron and Lockhart, not mentioning the whole story. Like how Ginny screamed for her not to die, how Harri had touched her cheek and said it would all be okay. Not to Ron, not to the Headmaster, **_no one_**.

The two had bonded even more over the next break, inviting Hermione too, only for her to decline. They'd shrugged and talked about the two worlds. The differences were amazing! How passionately Harri had spoken when describing music and art, democracy and republic, ancient and modern day. She loved to know things, like how the Oort Cloud surrounded the Solar System as a sphere or how it was illegal for a time to serve ice cream with cherry pie in Kansas (some place in the States). Her ambition to understand how things worked and linked and interlocked with other things was admirable, to know how to use it to help others was an even better aspect of Harri that Ginny discovered.

Hermione memorized things and spouted them word for word. That was just how she knew things, from that one point of view. It was biased to say that they were the definite facts when things like magic could easily turn it into a tea cup for the afternoon. Harri on the other hand comprehended _why_ things were like this and asked _how_ it was so. She knew how to talk to people with subtlty and tact, caring and empathetic. That was why she had felt that she could go to her for help, her memory gaps wouldn't go unappreciated.

This past year had been especially horrid. The Not-Mad-Eye Moody had entered the older girl into the Triwizard Tournament, forcing more ridicule onto her. It was very similar to Ginny's first year, the whole school against one short girl. Whispers followed in the halls, at mealtimes, and around classrooms. Everyone made her out to be a fame-seeking brat that was way in over her head. In all actuality, Harri had been the one most prepared for the competition, years of experience under her belt. The student body's opinion changed once again after the First Task when Ginny's friend faced a _Hungarian-freakin'-Horntail._ There was also the witnessed death of Cedric, and Fudge's cover up...

Harri had no help during the whole ordeal, facing death and spitting in his face. For the what-ith time now? Voldemort is back, and the girl was to be shipped off to her family in the muggle world. There was to be no contact with Harri. And the Ministry had decided that her trauma was of no need for a psychiatrist.

That had led to her freaking out when they got back home.

"No, no, no! We - we _have_ to go get her! Mum, Harri was just-" she hyperventilated.

Molly Weasley held her daughter's shaking arms, "Ginny, calm down. We need to know what to do before we act, we can't just apparate in and steal her! The muggles would think she was kidnapped! Dumbledore will get in contact with the British Muggle Minister and smooth things over." Smoothing out the tear tracks in the girl's eyes she said, "Take Hedwig and Harriet's trunk up to your room, she'll be back before you know it."

Ginny took a deep breath before gathering the objects and carrying the Feather-Light Charmed trunk into a corner. Forcing herself to shove down the nausea before she got sick, she ran the tap before splashing water over her face. Ron rubbed her shoulders and hugged her from behind. While he had no manners and was oblivious to everything, he knew how to comfort. His best friend was nearly shot, nearly killed. Who knew how Harri felt right now.

Hermione was silently staring at the mantle, lost in thought. It was almost surreal, like she had been watching it all from a telly. In slow motion, she watched out of the corner of her eye as the collar of Harriet's shirt was snagged and a gun hit over her head. This wasn't like their other dangerous situations, this was a muggle infested area and outside of school. Witnesses, all surrounding the two like an audience. It felt like she was watching a play, bad guy has the damsel and the mysterious hero saves her before taking her off to their happily ever after.

Thing is, she didn't know that it was almost like that, had they not been Harriet Potter and Sherlock Holmes.

To admit to herself, Hermione would say that yes, she was jealous. In first year, she had no other friends and Harri had people tripping over their feet to know her. Studying and being the best student she could be was all Hermione had. Then Harriet Potter had decided to pick up the slack in second year and bye-bye her top student role. And it had seemed so like Harri to get even _more_ publicity through the Tournament. It hadn't felt fair then, and Hermione knew she was a bitch about it for no reason than the petty resentment she felt in her heart.

"Well, how long-"

"- Will Professor Dumbledore take?"

Both twins had been terrified that ickle Harri had been violated like that (as they had been every end of the year since they met her). She was their acquaintance in public, and their secret partner in crime. Their supplier, it was surprising when they learned how cunning and mischievous she actually was. Ron knew of her help, but only what they wanted him to know. They never dared to tell Hermione, Merlin knows what she'd do to them all.

"I've sent an emergency note through the fire and your father is searching the Ministry for him if he turns out to not be in his office." said Mrs. Weasley.

"All we can do is wait, then?" Hermione asked quietly, though she knew the answer.

Mrs. Weasley gave a grim smile, "I'm afraid so dear."

"What about the Professor's? Can't they do anything?" Ginny asked desperately.

"Not without the Headmaster."

She had never felt so useless.

 **000**

The door to the room swung open as Lestrade walked into the room quietly. He took note of the sleeping redhead, curled up to the edge of the bed. The room was dim, a radio playing jazz softly in the corner. Sherlock was sitting in an uncomfortable chair next to the bed, fingers intertwined and holding his chin. He was studying the content girl's face when he looked at Lestrade from the corner of his eye.

"Where'd she go?" Lestrade demanded quietly.

A puff of air left Sherlock's mouth, "Under the bed. A strange place, with strangers walking about , and no one she knew was around."

"And she knows you?" the DI asked rhetorically.

"Yes."

Lestrade sputtered in surprise, "How? If you kne-"

"Of course I didn't know!" the self-proclaimed sociopath hissed before checking on the slumbering redhead. Not knowing how to word it exactly (for once), he rolled up the sleeve of the fresh shirt.

Lestrade openly gaped in shock. The most manipulative, antisocial, narcissistic arsehole on the planet had a _soulmark._ And that meant...

"Need a blanket?" he smirked at the dawning expression. "It's not visible on her at the moment. I find it quite flattering that she would keep hers hidden to this extent."

"Extent?"

The blue eyes glittered with amusement before he turned them upwards, "Her clothes. Long sleeves, enough layers to not be seen if they ripped, and there had been a bandage taped over it before Molly took it off. Even subconsciously, she kept it protected from prying eyes. Her hair has been long for quite some time, thrown over her shoulder to create a veil. Her arm would roll, confirming that something was over the words. Located on the shoulder blade, the left to be exact."

The DI sighed as he too looked at the ceiling before sitting in a chair, "Damn..." He turned his head to the young man next to him, thinking.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "I can practically hear you. What is it?"

Lestrade hesitated then asked, "You're not going to... you know..."

The look on Sherlock's face would be hilarious in any other situation. Eyes wider that the moon, it looked as if someone had told him his brother got him a Christmas letter. Too bad he didn't have a camera.

"Holy Bloody Fucking Hell, of course not! Why would you think I would?!" he finally burst out with incredulously.

"Well... you _are_ -"

Dark curls bounced as Sherlock shook his head furiously, "No! I would never - _defile_ her! Never would I even _think_ to... to..."

Lestrade let out a relieved breath. Good, at least he knew Sherlock's intentions. He was too surprised, answered quick, the first thought that came to mind. He released another breath, this time of surrender. _God, bastard's rubbing off on me._

Sherlock groaned in frustration on the topic. She's a _minor_ , for God's sake! As if he'd do something so vulgar to Harri...

It just occurred to him that he had been referring to her as Harri, not Harriet or Miss Potter. He wasn't so sure if that was good or bad.

This was... out of his area. What was he supposed to do? It wasn't like any other soulmates, she was _ten years_ his junior, a child. A physically, mentally, and emotionally scarred child that deserved as much support as possible. If that was what she needed, then that is exactly what he would provide. Sherlock had not previously known what his role as such to her entitled, until they exchanged their words. No, it was before then. When they first locked eyes, his resolve was made. To be her friend, protector, and, maybe one day, her lover. Sometimes soulmates didn't marry, and that was okay. Baby steps for now. He'd help heal her old wounds, he'd make her safe. He promised.

 ** _Don't make promises you can't keep._**

 _Then I'll just have to make sure that I can, in fact, keep it._

Harri was already changing his point of view on things in life. Thing was, he had no idea how to respond to it.

 **000**

John waited in Judge Morris' chambers as she read over the few documents. This case had been a floozy, a simple track and catch turned into child abuse of his (and yes, he admits it unlike a certain someone) best friend's _bloody Soulmate._ This made it personal, much more important. But he needed the warrant for the investigation by the Yard to keep going. The police could keep the Dursleys in custody for forty eight hours before letting them loose. That was all the time they had to open and shut this case before losing all grounds to hold them. And he was the apparent delivery boy for it.

"And Miss Potter has not had any medical files recorded since her birth?" Bertha Morris clarified.

"Yes. The police need this to gain access to the residence of her relative's home. We are sure there is evidence." He replied. The silent _legally_ was implied that they would find it themselves if the warrant was not signed.

Morris tilted her eyes to look at John, "Mr. Watson, what is the significance of this case? I am not ignorant to the fact that Mr. Sherlock Holmes does not take a case if it doesn't have an interest. What is so intriguing about a child abuse and neglect to him?"

He cleared his throat to speak softly, "Miss Harri is uh... his Soulmate, Judge. He intends to right the wrong she was given. It is my personal belief that he wants to help her."

The judge's eyebrows shot up to her hairline. The genius detective had a soulmark, who would have guessed? "Well, this is something... I'll sign the warrant. But," she eyed him, "Where would she go once she is released? No matter the circumstances, she will not be going with the two of you."

John racked his brain for someone that could help take her in and still keep her close. There were few people Sherlock would entrust with his secrets, let alone his heart. "What about Martha Hudson? She is kind and has room in her home. Harriet will be cared for there, and not have the risk of being put into the system."

The judge blew a stream of air from her nose before looking intently at John's face. Whatever he guessed she'd been looking for had been found when she nodded her head. Her pen scribbled her signature before it was handed over, pulling back at the last moment, "One condition. Mrs. Hudson will be given an interview by myself. If I deem her sufficient and Child Protective Services can say for certain that her home is in livable condition, Miss Potter may reside in 221A. Miss Potter will have regular check ins at random intervals and is not permitted to be left alone at any time outside of the flats. Am I clear?"

"Yes, Judge Morris." John agreed with a firm expression. He was handed the form and quickly exited the chambers.

The dial tone sounded once after having clicked on Sherlock's number - now on speed dial - when his friend answered. _"Did you get the warrant."_ That wasn't a question, but oh well.

"Yes."

" _Good. Meet Lestrade at Number 4 Privet Drive. Take your laptop and webcam, Skype when you get there."_

"Aye Aye Captain." The call ended on that note.

He raised his hand to the traffic, "Taxi!"

 **000**

"Good. Meet Lestrade at Number 4 Privet Drive. Take your laptop and webcam, Skype when you get there."

 _"Aye Aye Captain."_ Sherlock hit the red button with a smirk. Lestrade had already left the hospital to investigate the house for evidence of abuse. The boy would go to his Aunt's and Harri...

They'd cross that bridge when they came to it.

The dreary daylight was being filtered by pastel curtains, air conditioning keeping the room at a comfortable temperature. The sterile smell was starting to burn his nostrils, but there was nowhere he'd rather be. Under his own accord, Sherlock lifted his hand and eased out the crease between two crimson brows. What he hadn't accounted for was the subtle shift of her face nuzzling his palm.

Sherlock studied her face, "Well aren't you just precious... Hmp!" With a chuckle, he smoothly retracted his hand. This girl would be his undoing.

Smoothing out his trousers, he stood and placed a cellphone on the nightstand. Food, preferably not the poison sold here, was in order. A local café perhaps.

 **000**

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN SHE'S GONE?!"

"Technically, we just can't get to her-"

"MY GODDAUGHTER IS MISSING AND YOU'RE CALLING A TECHNICALITY? FIND HER DAMMIT!"

"Black! Calm-"

"DON'T TELL ME TO CALM DOWN SNIVELLUS! MY GODDAUGHTER WAS ASSAULTED AND NO ONE IS DOING ANYTHING!"

"Sirius my boy, sit-"

"I REFUSE TO SIT DOWN DUMBLEDORE! WHERE WERE ANY OF YOU? HARRI WAS JUST ABDUCTED AND WITNESSED ANOTHER STUDENT'S DEATH HARDLY TWO WEEKS AGO! WHY IN THE NAME OF MORGANA'S SAGGY TITS WOULD YOU SEND HER BACK TO PETUNIA, ALBUS?!"

This meeting was not going well for one Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. The Order was summoned under the urgent matter of Harriet Potter's disappearance earlier that day. She had been taken to a muggle hospital after being threatened by an armed man. Her relatives had been arrested by the muggle police. And everything was in shambles.

The wards would no longer work without them, and Harri had been put into a position where they've lost access to her. And everyone knows the incompetence of muggle doctors - they weren't as advanced as mediwitches or Healers. They lacked the proper tools and knowledge. Now Harriet was in danger because he'd been a right fool and forgone an escort.

Word had spread amongst Wizarding Britain, and soon all of the Magical Globe had caught wind. It was instantaneous that Sirius had called an emergency meeting once he got the message from Ron and the twins. The governments were in uproar, furious that their savior had been treated like such. Albus could imagine Rita Skeeter was scratching up the latest version of The Daily Prophet as they spoke.

Leveling a disappointed look at the raging man, Albus stood. "Sirius, we know where she is. We cannot get to her due to so many people already alert of her. The police is involved now, an ongoing investigation is commencing with Harriet in the very middle. Of what they are searching for, I am not sure. But one thing is certain, we _will_ get her back."

Sirius clenched his fists in anger, gritting his teeth in an animalistic snarl.

"I wouldn't be so sure about that." A cold voice spoke from behind them.

The members whirled around with their wands pointed at the intruder. He was tall and elegant, a tailored suit adorning his body. He held an umbrella and the iciest expression Albus has ever seen upon a human face.

"And why, kind sir, would you think that?" Interrogation in the guise of curiosity was always Albus' specialty.

A stony smirk crossed the man's lips, "Do not delude yourself Headmaster. I am not kind, nor do I think. I _know_ you won't be getting her back anytime soon."

"How." The resident Bat of Hogwarts drawled as he inched forward.

"The same way I know little brothers don't like sharing."

 **000**

 _With a shiver crawling up her spine, she ran. Dodging this way and that. Quicker and quicker. Breathing harder and harder. A stagger here and there. It was freezing and muddy, the wet dirt caking her bare feet. She couldn't see much in the fog, but she knew he was there. Hiding - no, lurking in the shadows and biding his time. The rushing of blood pounded in her ears as she whipped around another hedge. He was coming._

 _This was hell._

 _So cold now. It was hard to move, let alone run. But if she didn't, she was done for. Faster, faster. Hurry up, he'll get you! The wind whispered cruelly to her, biting into her skin and making her eyes water. Her fingertips were numb and blue, her teeth chattering against each other. No matter where she went, it all looked the same. Which turn to take? How long to go straight? Is he waiting just around the bend?_

 _"Harriet... darling girl! Where are you going?"_

 _Something caught her foot._

 _"You can't run from me, my dear."_

 _With a loud shriek she fell onto the cold fleshy form. A lift of her head showed vacant brown eyes widened by fear, a gaping mouth open in a yell._

 ** _"Kill the spare."_**

 _She screamed._

...

Bolting up, Harri scooted back with her legs to get away from the dead corpse. A dull ache was registered, scooting back had caused her to hit her head on the bed.

... Bed?

The aseptic scent finally hit her nose. Clean and odorless, but still there like a damp veil had settled over the room. Harri breathed and found that the air stung her lungs, chilled from the air conditioner. Her hospital gown had embarrassingly bunched up around her thighs in her panic, bringing a flush to her cheeks. After patting down the thin garment (and her messy hair while she's at it), Harri looked to her arm and found the clip taped to her index finger and an IV dripping the clear fluid into her veins.

Eyes closed, she breathed. In. Hold. Out. Repeat.

It was a routine Harri found herself doing whenever in a tight situation. It gave her a moment to gather her wits, think rationally, and calm her stallion of a heart. Like with the Mirror of Erised or in the Chamber... the Shrieking Shack... the Dragon... and Merpeople... and the Maze... Graveya-

 **Buzz. Buzz. Buzzzzzzzzz.**

The bedside table shook with the small cellphone, set on vibrate. Biting her lip, Harri internally contemplated. It wasn't hers, but it could also be important. Pick it up. Let it ring out. Eenie meenie minie mo. Hmmmm.

Her hand hesitantly reached out and picked it up. It was smart phone, she didn't really know what kind. Harri didn't particularly care much for what she wasn't ever going to get, a habit instilled since she was little. Her thumb swiped the green icon to the side and she slowly held it up to her ear, "...Hello?"

 _"Good afternoon Miss Harriet. I hope my calling hadn't woken you from your rest?"_

The cool, calm, and collected baritone voice rolled over her like the cool velvet of her first dress. The feeling of finally, _finally_ having something she had admired quietly from the sidelines, of knowing it was hers and not even the Minister himself could take it away. It was as quenching as a glass of water in the middle of the Sahara and had Harri smiling despite her hands becoming clammy.

"Oh, no. I'd just gotten up and - um, yeah." Yep. Totally not awkward. Nailed it.

A smooth chuckle made her smile and curl around the pillow to her right. _"Glad to know you're settled in alright. Say, are you hungry?"_

"No! I mean, you don't -" Harri's stomach decided to interrupt with it's own input, sounding very much like a provoked grizzly bear.

 _"I believe that would be a yes. Are you a fan of takeout?"_

"I've never tried." Gooseflesh crawled up her arms, her response made anxiety ram its ugly head in the bottom of her gut. As silly as it felt, she was worried he would find her abnormal compared to others. For once in her life, Harri wants more than anything to at least appear like any other girl in London.

 _"Well,"_ The door to her room opened, "It's about time we find out, hm?"

The whole affair was surprisingly not awkward at all, save for her of course. Socializing had never been Harri's strong suit, and it made her flustered. Especially with her _Soulmate_ in the same room. That word would never grow old to her. Ever. She also found that she liked the savory Chinese food, fresh citrus and vegetables tasted in every bite. Exchanges were made, learning small tidbits about one another. She soaked it all in, wanting to ingrain every particle of information about her partner. The action was noticeably reciprocated.

She stared at the box that held her rice. _In. Hold. Out._ "... Why'd you leave your phone here?"

Sherlock paused in his chewing, tilting his head at her. "I wanted to leave you a way to contact me should you have needed it. As we did not find a cellphone of your own, assuming you had one in the first place, I feel that if you are to be left on your lonesome then you deserve a form of communication."

"How do you do that?" Yes, Harriet. Ask the vaguest question possible. She risked a glance up then immediately slammed her eyes downward at his stare.

"Do what?"

"Like... know things that aren't obvious. Finding out so much about someone with the smallest look. I... don't understand." Harri gnawed on her lip, hoping she didn't sound discourteous or vacuous.

A paled finger, slightly calloused with show of work lifted her chin from its tucked position. Sherlock's smile was sweet as the caramel ice cream one Florean Fortescue always offered her when she stayed at Diagon Alley. And just like the ice cream, she melted at the sight. "It is not that I know, more that I see. A person is laid out in what they wear, how they stand, and what they say. If you look carefully, as you had done before with Mr. Bagstan earlier this morning."

"So people... not like you are only scraping the surface? Like, hitting the tip of the iceberg and not figuring out what's underneath until they dig under? And unlike them, you notice that the ice goes deeper and dive down."

"Quite like that. A wonderful analogy, if I do say so myself." He smirked in accomplishment at making her bashful, though he knew she appreciated the compliment. She deserved it, after all.

"... What happened to my relatives?"

"They are currently being held by the Yard, questioned and detained under the charges of child neglect and abuse. There's an ongoing investigation into the matter." Sherlock looked her in the eyes, face set in stone. "They will not harm you."

Harri gave one of her most grateful smiles that she has only gifted a few, "Thank you, Sherlock Holmes."

Their fingertips barely touched, the barest of brushes. "Anything, Miss Harriet Potter."

This would work for now.

 **000**

Sherlock excused himself from the room in favor of John texting him they were ready to go in. It was evening then, and he logged into his laptop. There were horrors that came with neglect and abuse, ugly pieces found behind closed doors. The most normal of people living their normal lives aren't so polite behind the curtain. He'd come across terrors like this, children chained like animals and starved. But this, this one call made him queasy and clammy. What were the living conditions? Was she given a room, or forced to sleep in some shed out back? It was obvious she'd been given bare necessities, but how basic?

John's face popped up on the screen, "Alright, lets get this over with."

"Agreed. Have forensics already been collected?" Sherlock asked with his usual skepticism.

"Yes. Lestrade cleared out the place for us. Shall we?" The screen was turned to see the brown front door and white picket fence. All houses were exact replicas, an endless array of copies. How Harri hadn't lost her mind already was a wonder for the ages.

The door was opened with John's gloved hand, and they were bombarded with beige. It was _everywhere._ The walls, the counters, the couch, even the curtains. It was so neutral, not a gram of originality to be seen. Everything was neat and tidy, not a speck of dust to be seen. To the left was a stair case, forward the kitchen, and right was a bland recreation room.

 _Overly clean, keeps up appearance of the family next door. Rugs regularly removed, furnature regularly arranged, and basebords regularly wiped down. The mother's obsession with neighborhood gossip; blinds bent away from each other and wine stains on the sill. Kitchen sized down to accommodate children: Harri cooked since she was young enough to understand, approximately age of five by her intellectual capacity. A housewife, without need for work by the state of her nails._

"Go up the stairs, master bedroom."

 _The father provides for all needs, his high position giving way to indulge his family. Luxurious living and electronics, abundance of sweets, shopping allowances by the amount of unopened bags by the entrance. His obsession is to appear more important than he is. The closet is full of suits and dress attire. Formal at all times for all occasions, because he is above them all. A trophy wife, the perfect home, the best car, and a perfect son._

"Check the boy's room."

 _Now the son, is not so perfect. Messy slob by the amount of trash and laundry laying about. Occasional smoker, not quite addicted but getting there. Spoiled beyond belief, coddled by his mother and praised by his father. Their star child is no more a bully beating children for lunch money, which is hidden in the bottom desk drawer. More money to feed his friend's addictions, giving him a higher rank. Bullies anyone and everyone. Even his cousin..._

"Now the last room." Sherlock clenched his fists at the chipped wood around the edge. Who the hell put thirteen locks on a child's door?

 _Bare; small twin bed (thin mattress), end table, lamp, and wardrobe. Hardly lived in, only the past few years. Untouched since last summer if the sheen of dust thick enough. No personal items. Then where are they? She goes to a boarding school in Scotland, has friends; why wouldn't she have gifts and memos of them? She doesn't trust the relatives and wouldn't be careless to leave such things lying around. Unless - they were all in her trunk at the station. And her trunk is now with her ginger friend._

"John?" He asked.

"Yes, anything?" The blond man turned the webcam to face himself.

"Where did Harri sleep before?"

"What do you mean? This is her room; the only other one."

Sherlock shook his head, "No, no. It's barely been lived in, she probably got the upgrade when she first went to her current school. This place would be smaller, dull and unforgiving. Out of the way. Somewhere off to the side, where the aunt could quickly usher her in the instance of company. They didn't care for her comfort John, only that she wouldn't gain confidence in life. Where is that?"

The steps leading down the stairs stopped as John paused. Then - "Oh God." He breathed before flying down. "Sherlock-" He halted in front of the cupboard. Under the fucking stairs. "Do you honestly think-"

"Open it."

The doorknob was shinier than any normal broom closet's should be. There were no other knobs that were polished, and it had been used often. It slid smoothly with a soft 'click' and John hesitated before wrenching it open. And by God, was he upset.

The space was small, half the size of Harri's current mattress. A low, slanted ceiling covered in cobwebs with a single incandescent bulb hanging naked with a thread to pull. Shelved lined the back wall, the damp smell of mold assaulted John's nose. And on the floor was a thin crib mattress, matted down and covered in several blankets to pack in cushion. And on the wall, in childish emerald green Crayola, **"hARri'S rOom."**

"... Have processed this?"

"No."

"... Call Lestrade back in."

"Y-yeah."

 **000**

It was a while after the Skype investigation that Sherlock asked the question everyone had skirted around, "Why didn't you tell anyone?"

Red hair hung over her face in the shame that was not hers, "It's not that I didn't, but that no one believed me."

"Who?!" If someone had known, oh if they'd known...!

"Uh- My old primary teachers. Aunt Petunia just waved it off, and Uncle Vernon said that I was sick with delusions. The school tossed out the accusation and they never called the house when I told again." She could feel tears burn her eyes at the memory of being helpless, to know that nobody would save her. That she was unwanted, and forgotten. "I cried all the time. But-but not too loud. Uncle Vernon hadn't liked it when I was loud. He didn't like it when I spoke."

"Were police ever involved? Investigations, follow-ups, any word?"

"No. No one really cared to see. The neighbors thought I was the problem child in the household. That I was trouble because Aunt Petunia would spread nasty things." She said.

Oh, the injustice this girl has had. Ignored and unloved, it made Sherlock's black heart throb and tug in ways he thought were impossible. His own childhood, while overshadowed by Mycroft, had been pleasant. He had no friends, but never really wanted them. He couldn't connect with them, and that was fine. His parents loved him and he was raised well with anything he ever requested at his disposal. He lived the way he wanted. But Harri, she didn't even get a first chance. She was given shit hands in the game of life, and her life was so short already. Why her? He never liked it when children were the victims, but this was _so_ _much_ _worse._

 **000**

"Where did your scar come from? The odd shape is most intriguing and looks to be only just healed."

Her hand brushed against it. "Car accident when I was young. It killed my parents."

"I think not." Sherlock furrowed his brows. "The tissue would have healed long ago, and the scar would not be as prominent." She looked to be about to interrupt, but he was on a roll, "On that note, your arm is also scarred from a vertical laceration on your right arm. Not by yourself, no, you're right handed. Also on your right arm, another scar on the juncture. Too large to be a needle, possibly a fang though I have never seen one of such scale. You live in the most disgustingly ordinary neighborhood in all of the UK, which leads me to wonder: What sort of school do you attend?"

They had gotten much more comfortable with each other over the few days she'd been at Saint Bart's. Her relatives had plead guilty on a plea bargain for the possibility of parole, and Dudley Dursely would go to live with his Aunt Marge Dursely. The judge had interviewed Mrs. Hudson and deemed her caring nature acceptable for Harri. 221a-c were quickly cleaned of any and all traces of human remains and acidic chemicals in time for the searches of the apartment building. Save for the leaky pipe, they were golden. And Harri had adjusted quite well.

"A boarding school. You know this."

"Yes, but you never gave the name. Nowhere is it listed, and my curiosity is singeing my brain from the inside out."

"It's not possible for your frontal cortex to spontaneously combust due to curiosity, Sherlock."

"Ah, true. Nice change of topic, but I'm not that easy."

"Neither am I."

"..."

"..."

The door opened, interrupting their stare off. John pointed behind him, "You have a visitor."

"Who?" Both had asked in unison.

A tall man, dressed in a tailored suit and leather shoes entered, "Me. Hello Sherlock." He twirled his umbrella mockingly.

 **000**

 **Feedback? How was it? I hope I improved... I'll try to update soon! (Probably not gonna happen though...) But serious, thanks for your support.**


End file.
